Descripciones:


...There was a snowstorm on the evening on which I was born. The date was 1918. The place was Hanover, New Hampshire where my father taught philosophy at what was then a small college. I grew up in the hills where the Connecticut River dominated the valley, and the ocean seemed an enormous distance away. Our house was at the top of a hill, and a garden extended from the back door to the banks of the river. We had a gardener who came twice a week to take care of it. It wasn't unusual in that time and place.
The smell of wood burning is the first thing that I remember and apple cider warming on the wood burning stove. My older brother putting on layers to go sledding on the hill behind my house. The puddles on the floor which his boots made when he returned. My mother sitting on the windowseat sketching snow covered trees...





...I went to the window and looked out, but instead of a meadow with a few lingering patches of snow, I saw ocean -- as if I was standing on a cliff overlooking San Francisco Bay. Beneath me the waves turned into white surf, broke up where boulders emerged from the ocean's floor, regrouped, moved slowly back out to sea. It was 1948, almost exactly five years since the day I got the telegram that said that Luke was dead....